Lucy Ondo

CHAPTER ONE     (CAMPO 0 MILES TO MT. LAGUNA 42.8 MILES)

LESSON LEARNED: Toilet tissue is best sealed in a plastic bag.

April 1, 2014

In the early morning hours, we traveled south by car and turned westward toward Campo, California. Raindrops splashed the windshield. Rain, the least expected weather for my first day on the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT). The car bumped down the dirt road toward the wall separating the USA from Mexico, I remained elated, excited to finally begin the hike after so many months of preparation. Eager to be on my way, I touched the wire fence, looked across the dirt no-mans land to the wall, signed the register behind the monument, and bid my husband a hasty goodbye.

A mile down the trail at the edge of an open field, I encountered two women I recognized from photos on the PCT Class of 2014 Facebook page. For the last several months both Trina* and Tess* had posted daily comments. Clearly, they were in the middle of a crisis as their gear was spread about getting soaked by the rain. I introduced myself and quickly hiked on not wishing to get caught up in whatever drama was taking place.

After passing Highway 94 and crossing railroad tracks, the trail ascended into the hills. From reading blogs I expected this first stretch to be boring. Unexpectedly, despite the light drizzle, it was beautiful.  The trail was frequently edged with colorful spring wildflowers and flowering yucca. White popcorn flowers, yellow desert pincushion, and orange poppies dotted small spots of color among the serpentinite rocks strewn across the hillsides as the trail wound upward.

An hour or so later looking up at a steep section of switchbacks I could follow the trail disappearing among gray boulders.  Through the drizzle and fog I caught a momentary glimpse of what appeared to be a woman in an orange poncho struggling slowly along.

A few switchbacks up I came upon the person lying across the trail under the poncho.

“Are you okay?” I quickly and cautiously jumped over the person onto a flat rock.  It was slippery. Thrown off balance, I reached out for a boulder to steady myself.

“Just resting,” came the reply. Surprised to hear a man’s voice, I turned and saw an overweight man huddled under the poncho.

“What’s your name?” I inquired, concerned.

“Santa’s Helper,” he sounded exhausted. His white beard did look a little like Santa’s. After his assurances that he was only resting and indeed fine, I continued upward.

My footsteps were quick and eager. How different this day unfolded compared with my anticipation. I had imagined struggling through the desert hot and dry. Two liters of Gatorade and four liters of Smartwater remained almost untouched in my pack keeping my backpack heavy on this chilly morning.

Mid-day the sun made a tentative appearance. As it began to warm, I stopped to shed my rain jacket.

On top of a large rock with a territorial view back down-valley, I paused for a lunch break. In what was to become a habit, I removed my shoes and socks and set them out to dry in the sun while enjoying the break.

Lake Morena, at mile 20, is the common goal on the first day for most thru-hikers. I planned to stop at Hauser Creek, mile 15. At this point of the day, I was secretly hoping I could miraculously make the twenty miles all the way to Lake Morena.  I ate my lunch with feelings of high expectations. I had Halfmile maps and the Halfmile GPS on my iPhone. I felt confident and prepared for my adventure.

Mid-afternoon, cresting the highest point of the day, a wide, deep canyon spread out before me. On the opposite wall, steep switchbacks wound up and out of the valley. Immediately, with sharp disappointment, I knew I lacked the energy to hike down and back up out of this steep valley. There was just no way. I must be satisfied making it to Hauser Creek.

Passing under power lines, I arrived at the unpaved South Boundary road and started down the sandy dirt road according to my map. For safety, I checked my GPS: ‘not on the PCT.’ I turned eastward looking for indications of the trail leaving the road down into the valley.

My heart quickened to see the sun glinting on three tents set up in a copse of trees below along the dry creek bed of Hauser Creek. I felt a surge of relief I would not be camping alone on my first night.

From a distance, I noticed a white border patrol truck, trailing dust, moving quickly up the road.  The truck pulled up as the officer rolled down his window.

“What are you doing out here, Miss?”

“Hiking the PCT.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” He queried.

I shrugged my shoulders. “Wanted to.”

“Where are you headed?”

“Canada.”

“Alone?”

The questioning continued for 15 minutes. The officer indicated I had set off a heat sensor detecting activity with the border patrol investigating all tripped sensors.

When he finished grilling me and seemed satisfied I was not an illegal crossed over from Mexico, he directed me to where the PCT trail cut back downhill in an obscure turn at the road edge. I thanked him, and he shook his head and drove away. I might have missed the trail had he not pointed it out.

Descending into the valley along steep switchbacks I heard a noise.  Startled, I let out a yelp. A fast-moving hiker managed to walk up directly behind me before I heard his footsteps.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to frighten you.” He apologized with a smile. We spoke briefly and hiked down to the campsite together. It was early, around 4:00 in the afternoon. The other hikers had already claimed the choice campsites, so the young man and I settled into the only open area remaining and set up our tents. I had practiced setting up my new tent at home and executed the tent erection without revealing clumsiness.

Placing my gear inside my tent, I sat down on a nearby log. The man sat down beside me. He was spending three weeks section hiking on holiday from Germany. He was tall, thin and athletic with short neatly trimmed dark brown hair. His black eyes lit up as he spoke. He had traveled to California on business and had extended his stay to section hike. Since his English was excellent, without much of an accent, I guessed he had visited the U.S. frequently. His compact back-pack and smart gear led me to believe this was not his first rodeo. He had gotten a late start on the trail today, and when I mentally compared his start time with mine, I realized he had covered the 15 miles in half my time.

Nearby our camp, a small blonde woman, Ghost Angel, was eating dinner with tall lanky Zen Blue Sky. We exchanged hellos over the low growing bushes between our campsites. Zen’s hair was pulled into a short ponytail, and he already had a couple of days of stubble on his chin. I assumed they were a couple and not wishing to be intrusive made no further conversation.

In the opposite direction, under a tree, a chubby man with dark curly hair and large luminous blue eyes began his dinner preparations.

As we sat resting on our log perch, Bright Eyes accidentally overturned his Pocket Rocket stove and started a fire in the surrounding debris. He jumped around wildly stomping out the blaze. We were too surprised to react. Luckily, Bright Eyes trampled the fire out before our help was required. It was a humorous situation.  Nobody laughed.

Too tired to make my own dinner, I crawled into my tent, inflated my Neo-air and spread out my sleeping bag.

It was early. The air mattress felt narrow for my body and the sleeping bag much too warm. Tossing and turning, I lay awake worrying what I had gotten myself into.

Finally, it was dark. The temperature dropped as it began to rain. A couple of hours later, I put on my lightweight down jacket and snuggled further into the sleep bag and checked to make certain it was fully zipped up.

Later, still cold, I added my rain jacket, hat, and gloves.

As the night wore on, I pulled over me the foil emergency blanket I had packed thinking I might need it in the snowy high Sierras. By morning, every piece of clothing in my backpack was on my shivering body. I was tired from lack of sleep.

It was still raining.

Day 2:

I decided to pack up quickly and dash for Lake Morena, foregoing breakfast. The German hiker must have had the same plan as he was packed and already on the trail by the time I got out of my tent. I watched him ascended with his small pack and correctly guessed I had seen the last of him.

As I made my way upward out of the canyon tiny bits of sleet and rain hit my face as I leaned inward toward the rocky side of the mountain in the strong frosty wind. It was cold. The rain and sleet tore at my face and bare hands. Far below, another hiker, Ghost Angel, starting upward. Wearing her white Cuben Fiber rain-gear, she appeared as a ghost rising through the mist. It was thus Zen bestowed on her the trail name, Ghost Angel.

By the time I was out of the canyon, the rain and sleet abated, and the sky brightened.  The harsh chilling wind remained.  I kept my thoughts on making it to the small grocery store and café at Lake Morena. The anticipation of a warm breakfast kept me moving forward quickly over the wet and rocky terrain. I covered the five miles rapidly.

I planned to eat breakfast at Lake Morena, warm up and hike on.

Coming out at Lake Morena, I bee-lined straight down the paved road to the store.

Dropping my pack in the seat opposite, I slid into the booth by the window.

It felt warm and pleasant to be inside out of the cold.  I took my time eating eggs and slowly savored several cups of coffee.

It was a small cafe and store combination.  The booths for the cafe were in the front of the room along the windows.  Packed shelves and narrow aisles of the store took up the rest of the space.

Approaching the counter to pay my bill, I asked the man if he had pens for sale.

“30 dollars,” he handed me a glass object.

“For a pen?” I was incredulously looking at this strange object and wonder how I would write my notes with it. It must be some type of drug paraphernalia. I was still turning the strange object over in my hand.

“Here, take my pen.” He said kindly, handing me his ballpoint pen.

“Well, let me pay for it.” I exchanged the glass object for the pen he had been writing with.

“No, no, no.” responded the middle-eastern man with a friendly smile.

Reluctantly I left the warmth of the café, slung my pack over my shoulders and headed back down the road toward the park to catch the trail.

Stopping at the ranger station, I inquired where I might find the trail onward.   The thoughtful and unassuming ranger interrupted his work and stood up to approach the counter.

“The PCT ahead is covered in snow all the way to Mt. Laguna. I suggest you wait for the snow to melt before hiking on.” He paused, considered my gear and added, “There is an area here for hikers to camp.”

I paid for a camping spot, bought a packet of firewood, and located the thru hiker’s camping area. The area was across the interior road from the lake and slanted slightly downward toward the water. Directly in back of the site, the PCT continued onward. As I unpacked, I noticed my small roll of toilet paper had disintegrated inside my side pocket. I had not thought to protect it from the rain by placing it inside a protective plastic bag. Luckily, I carried an extra roll stashed inside the trash compactor bag lining my pack.

It was disappointing to camp after hiking only 5 miles on the second day. I was the first hiker to arrive. Throughout the day, other hikers came and stayed.

Zen Blue Sky, Ghost Angel, and Bright Eyes were the next to arrive. I learned that Zen Blue Sky and Ghost Angel had met at the trail angel’s house in San Diego where many hikers stay before heading out to begin the trail. They were, in fact, not a couple. He was a section hiker planning to hike only as far as Wrightwood.

Tall and blond, the arrival of Mermaid, a former model and actress in her mid-fifties, did not go unnoticed.  Her beauty was amplified by sparks of charisma. She was a person everyone noticed and remembered. She spoke amicably with the hikers gathered around the two picnic tables.

Mermaid was the soubriquet she was given later on the trail at Deep Creek Hot Springs. She introduced herself by her given name. We had the same backpack, ULA circuit, in the color purple haze; however, her backpack was almost twice the size as mine. I silently speculated she must have a kitchen sink in it.

She looked at our packs and turned to me, “Well, you seem like you know what you are doing. Have you backpacked before?”

It was an innocent question, and my answer just came out without thinking. “Yes, I hiked around Mt. Rainier on the Wonderland Trail and have done a trek in Nepal.”

It made me sound experienced. Our conversation turned to the discussion of gear. Mermaid’s husband had helped with her gear, and he had thought of everything. Nearby Ghost Angel sat listening.

I was to later learn Ghost Angel had climbed Mt. Rainier and Mr. Baker with her mountain guide husband.  Her niece, having hiked the PCT in 2013, had advised her on gear. She was a more experienced hiker. Had I known, I would have referred Mermaid’s gear questions to her and kept my own big mouth shut.

Mermaid and I were deep in our gear conversation when suddenly a pair of trekking poles slammed the edge of the table with a loud thud.

A woman in a red rain jacket hastily yanked off her blue knit cap to reveal short curly blonde hair.

“I am leaving the trail. I called my husband to pick me up. I miss my husband. I want to go home.” She announced to the assembled group. There were general and polite wishes of sympathy offered up by those who wished her well. I was too stunned to know how to respond to her announcement.  It was early on a thru hike to already be giving up.

In the twilight, Trina and Tess arrived. Trina kept up a loud running monolog dominating the fireside conversation.

“Tess tumbled right over like a reg’lar tumbleweed. Ha, ha. I asked the man at the store if he sold underwear and he gave me these Ha, Ha. Free. Ha, ha. ”.  Trina slapped the long white underwear she was wearing underneath her print polyester dress and without drawing breath in her rough voice continued, “I think I am goin’ ta hafta stay here a couple days to rest up. Ha, ha.” She rattled on.

I broke away from the gathering around the fire and headed for my tent.  Evidently, the store owner was now out a pen and long underwear.

Day 3:

It was a frosty night. Camping near the lake made the night air damp and cold. By morning a thin layer of ice covered my tent. I spread out the tent and fly in the sun to dry out before packing up.

I regretted not sticking to my plan to hike onward yesterday, away from the crowd of general chaos of everyone milling about in the morning. Fifteen Jetboils lined the table as many prepared breakfast. Another hiker mistakenly tried to pack up my tent fly. Luckily I kept an eye on my gear and was able to quickly reclaim it.

The dark, grimy shower at the campground was unappealing. I had not yet learned to take every opportunity to clean up and passed on taking a shower.  I thought of the missed shower later in the hike with regret.

By the time the tent dried and I had loaded my pack, it was past nine in the morning.  Late in the day to be starting. A mile up the trail, I realized I was overdressed and had to stop to take off my base layer, another unwanted delay.

Late morning crossing along a stand of cottonwood trees, I came upon Ghost Angel, Bright Eyes, and Zen Blue Sky taking a break on the bank of a small brook. Mermaid waded ankle deep in the stream.

“Stop and join us,” she happily called out, waving toward the grassy creek bank beyond.

“Yeah, take a break,” welcomed Bright Eyes as I jumped over the water using my poles for extra leverage.  Ghost Angel and Zen Blue Sky sat nearby talking quietly together.

When the four hiked on, I made a reason to stay behind sensing Ghost Angel’s reluctance to admit me into ‘her’ group. I watched the four disappear up the trail.

It was a pleasant sunny day. Warm, but not hot. I climbed up along scenic Kitchen Creek. Occasionally looking down to the creek as it tumbled over large flat granite rocks, I yearned to take a nap on the flat rocks lining the water’s edge. Unable to locate a suitable path down the steep drop off to the creek, I reluctantly kept to the trail passing along the hills among the big Berry Manzanita and chapparal.  I took my time and enjoyed the warm clear day.

I saw no other hikers along the way except the four hikers I had joined for the morning break.

I planned to camp at Cibbets Flat at mile 32. Mermaid and Bright Eyes were planning to continue on to Mt. Laguna. I anticipated Zen Blue Sky and Ghost Angel to be headed there as well.

In the afternoon, I arrived at the cut off to Cibbets Flat. The campground offered tables, toilets, and a fire ring. Heading down off the trail toward the campground situated in a glade of cottonwood, willow, and oak trees, it felt unsafe camping alone in a campground with road access. My fear of two legged animals was greater then fear of four legged animals.

I covered the extra mile down to the campground slowly, apprehensively. To my delight Zen Blue Sky and Ghost Angel were sitting up their tents.

In the early evening, Pacman arrived.  Pacman, Zen Blue Sky and I sat around the campfire talking late into the evening. Ghost Angel stayed in her tent.

Pacman, in his early twenties, tall, thin, with dark hair and a full beard, had the look of a Roman soldier with his regal nose and imposing height. He had hiked the Appalachian Trail (AT) the previous summer and relayed tales of his AT experiences. His lively and adventurous spirit infused our evening conversation with energy and humor.

Day 4:

It took all day to hike the long 11 uphill miles to Mt. Laguna. The trail rose to 5,042’ into pine forests with snow frequently covering the ground. I did not see another person until I reached Mt. Laguna as Zen Blue Sky, Ghost Angel, and Pacman all hiked on ahead of me first thing in the morning.

Mt. Laguna was completely covered in four inches of snow.

The Mt. Laguna campground was completely white with snow. No one was camped there. Surveying the white frozen snow in the chilly afternoon, I decided to try to get a hotel room. Crunching across the campground, I made a hurried beeline for the highway.

Mt. Laguna is a tiny hamlet at the high point along Sunset Highway. As I headed along the road toward the general store, I met Mermaid.

“You better hurry. There aren’t many rooms available.” She motioned toward the Laguna Mountain Lodge.

The room was small. The worn green and crimson printed drapes and bedspread added to the feeling of gloom. The dark brown carpeting had seen better years. A single little lamp stood askew on the small bedside table. The room was warm and offered a bed and running water and served as a much better alternative to camping in the snow.  I had rented the last room available for the night.

I spread out my tent to dry, washed the tent footprint in the bathtub, and cleaned up my backpack and gear. There were no laundry facilities. I hand washed my clothes in a bucket with the laundry soap provided.

I noticed Ghost Angel, Bright eyes, and Zen Blue Sky shared the room next door.

Later, Mermaid and I wandered over to Mt. Laguna Sports & Supply, an outfitter across the street. It was a small store loaded with an impressive selection of gear stacked floor to ceiling. Waiting my turn to purchase a small stuff sack and a lighter weight rain jacket, I witnessed hikers purchasing gear at an incredible speed. Dave, the owner, helped Mermaid go through and cull unneeded items from her backpack. An avid hiker, Dave advised me to load my sleeping bag in the bottom of my pack without the stuff sack to save space, then load everything else in for an even weight distribution.  It was good advice.  Henceforth, this is the how I stowed my sleeping bag in my pack.

“Hey, move over and let me sit here.” It was Pacman with his effervescent smile taking a seat across the rustic wood table.  Ten thru-hikers joined together at one large long table to eat dinner at the nearby Pine House Café, a rustic log building down the road from the lodge. We were a happy group. Mostly, we spoke of gear and food, hiker’s favorite topics. Bright Eyes, Ghost Angel, Zen Blue Sky, and Pacman were among the diners. I noticed Ghost Angel was wearing makeup. I marveled her pack must be light enough for her to stow makeup. Lucky woman.

*indicates it is not the actual name or trail name of person